


Get Down

by Bouncey



Series: Gifts and Prompts [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Blushing Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon Divergent, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, Kissing, M/M, Neck Kissing, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Service Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Shy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Smut, julian alfred pankratz viscount de lettenhove - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouncey/pseuds/Bouncey
Summary: Geralt’s face was aflame and he was glad that his mutations tamped down the majority of his blush. “I could chop firewood or carry water. I can cook a little and I’m good with horses.”“Hmm.” Jaskier made his way down the steps and walked in a slow circle around the suddenly nervous Witcher. No Lord or Viscount had ever done that to him before. Jaskier was appraising him with eyes that had seen Geralt's every high and low. Jaskier was his best friend, after all. He knew what Geralt was capable of; what was the point of this whole Lordly charade? Jaskier circled back to his front and paused thoughtfully, “I suppose we can find you a room.”ORJaskier is the Lord of the castle and Geralt's a dirty rascal...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Gifts and Prompts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843594
Comments: 12
Kudos: 249





	1. Kiss the Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Ya girl's therapist said writing more smut would help me work through some stuff and lemme tell you...
> 
> This was the first time I actually had fun writing it! And like fully enjoyed the result! 
> 
> Here's a little blushing maiden Geralt and formal Lordly Jaskier treat for y'all.

Geralt’s eyes went wide when he entered the throne room of the Castle de Lettenhove. He had remembered the name vaguely as he'd made his way up the long country lane towards the estate's front gate. Now, staring down the length of the impressively decorated stone hallway, he remembered why the name was so godsdamned _familiar._ He’d been listening to the same high, clear tenor introduce his best friend by that name for nearly ten years. He remembered the name his favorite person on the Continent used when he wanted to sound impressive or get free room and board: “Julian Alfred Pankratz, _Viscount de Lettenhove.”_

 _Fuck_. Of course it was Jaskier’s manor house. Of course it was Jaskier’s lovely red carpet that Geralt was tracking dirt all over. Of course it was Jaskier’s father he’d have to beg for the opportunity to hunt monsters for less than sufficient coin. He kept his eyes respectively averted as he approached the humble wooden throne and knelt, head bowed. 

“My Lord Pankratz,” he rumbled, “I’ve come in search of a contract or perhaps one night of hospitality in return for menial labor.”

“Well met, Sir Witcher.”

 _Fuck, again_. The Witcher glanced up and somehow managed to keep his eyes from widening in shock for the second time in five minutes. “Milord Pankratz.”

Jaskier took a steadying breath as Geralt looked him over. The part-time bard was glad he’d dressed to impress today because Geralt showing up and bowing like a knight errant when Jaskier was looking and smelling his absolute best was sheer dumb luck.

“Sir Witcher,” Jaskier addressed him, keeping his tone firm and formal. “What brings you to kneel on the grounds of my humble estate?”

“As I said before,” the Witcher replied, “I’ve come in search of a contract, or one night of hospitality in return for menial labor.”

“That sounds like a rather practiced speech, Witcher,” Jaskier intoned seriously. He drew himself up to his full height and pulled back his shoulders, shoving out his chest like any good Lord would. Geralt thought the lot of them were posturing idiots. When Jaskier did the same thing, however, the Witcher felt oddly proud and a little reverent. He stayed kneeling far longer than he would have with any other rude nobility. “What work could you do for me that would be worth a room in my house?”

Geralt’s face was aflame and he was glad that his mutations tamped down the majority of his blush. “I could chop firewood or carry water. I can cook a little and I’m good with horses.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier made his way down the steps and walked in a slow circle around the suddenly nervous Witcher. No Lord or Viscount had ever done that to him before. Jaskier was appraising him with eyes that had seen Geralt's every high and low. Jaskier was his best friend, after all. He knew what Geralt was capable of; what was the point of this whole Lordly charade? Jaskier circled back to his front and paused thoughtfully, “I suppose we can find you a room.”

Jaskier snapped his fingers loudly and clearly and one attendant appeared on either side of him. There was a woman to his left, no older than Jaskier himself, with her head bowed respectfully. On his right side stood a middle aged man with gently greying hair, his hands clasped tightly together and resting against his lower back; he carried the air of someone who never took a step without considering its efficiency and professionalism first. 

“Matilde,” the Lord addressed the young maid. “Please fetch in Geralt’s saddle bags and bring them to the guest suite nearest my own chambers. Send our gentlest stable-boy to attend to the Witcher’s horse; she favors an apple or two before bed. Reynard, please measure our weary guest and have him bathed and clothed for dinner, if you would.”

“Yes, Milord,” the two servants bowed quickly and scurried off to attend to their various tasks. The valet darted forward and took Geralt by the elbow. The Witcher startled and jerked his arm in an effort to free himself but even his enhanced strength wasn't able to break the valet’s dedicated grip.

“Right this way, Sir Witcher.”

“Wha-?” Geralt glanced up at Jaskier, whose chest was still puffed forward in a subtle show of power. The emerald green velvet of his tight, tailored doublet emphasized the brown of his hair and the blue of his eyes, making him appear even more youthful and angelic than usual. His trousers were impeccably clean and his boots were shiny and black; authority oozed from Jaskier like honey from the comb. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat for a second time and he gulped. The Witcher was off-kilter and found himself even more lost for words than usual in the not-bard’s presence.

“In exchange for your room and board tonight,” Jaskier explained, “You shall be my guest at dinner and humor me with several interesting anecdotes in the sitting room after our meal.”

“Y-Yes, Milord,” Geralt agreed. The valet ushered him away, then, leading him down several twisting halls to the young Lord’s private bathing pool. He took a series of quick measurements with a thin strip of tape before handing Geralt a small pile of soft towels.

“Milord Pankratz has requested that you bathe and wash your hair. He’ll send another servant down shortly to dress and groom you properly for dinner.”

"Thank you,” Geralt bowed. The valet shook his head in mild amusement and disappeared from the bathing chambers. The Witcher, exhausted and confused beyond all measure, did the only logical thing left to do: he undressed and slipped into the warm, steamy pool of water. He might as well enjoy what little bits of luxury he could.

* * *

As soon as Geralt was far enough away, Jaskier released a long, slow breath and rested his hands against his knees, bending double to fully exhale. “Holy shit.”

“Milord?”

“Reynard!" the young Lord beamed, turning to clap his valet on the shoulder. "Thank you for doing me this favor. I appreciate it more than I know how to say.”

“Is this the Witcher you’ve spoken of all these years?”

“Indeed it is,” Jaskier nodded, glancing off in the direction of the baths. “Geralt of Rivia himself has graced my humble halls at last.”

“He seemed confused, Milord.”

“I haven’t introduced myself as Julian Alfred Pankratz in years,” the young Lord chuckled. “He probably forgot that I was called anything but Jaskier.”

“And your intentions?”

“Oh, I fully intend to seduce him, Reynard. Do not mistake my purposes there.”

“Of course,” the valet smirked conspiratorially. He’d practically raised the young nobleman, after all. They were each other’s confidants and friends as much as they were master and servant; Jaskier said goodbye to him privately every time he left to join Geralt on the Path, thanking the older man for all his years of friendship and advice in case they should not meet again. “Shall we execute the plan, then?”

“As much of it as we still can,” the Lord smiled. “That would be lovely. You’re a dear.”

“I expect that this evening will be more than entertaining, Milord.”

“Knowing Geralt, it certainty will be.”


	2. As You Were

“What brings you to my humble estate?” Jaskier asked, taking a slow sip from his silver chalice. He didn’t fail to notice the way Geralt’s eyes were trained on his wine-red lips as he spoke. “From the way you handled yourself in the throne room I suppose you were expecting my father.” **  
**

“Yes, Milord,” Geralt nodded. “For a moment I had forgotten your full title. My apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for, good Sir Witcher. I hope that your dinner is satisfactory.” 

The young nobleman snapped his fingers again and food appeared rather suddenly before them. Geralt’s stomach rumbled audibly when he caught a whiff of how good it smelled and he blushed furiously, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Milord.”

When he looked up again, Jaskier’s face showed nothing but concern. His Lordly air hadn’t disappeared in the slightest but his bard-like tendencies and his protectiveness of Geralt were showing more clearly. “When was the last time you ate something?”

Geralt blushed a deeper shade of pink and looked down at his plate. “Two days ago.”

Jaskier stood suddenly and made his way to the valet nearest the door. He spoke to the young man in hushed but urgent whispers, too fast and quiet for even Geralt to understand, before taking his seat again and dipping his head in respectful apology. “Please, let us eat.”

“Thank you, Milord, for your food and your hospitality.”

“I like the garb that Susan chose for you this evening. Blue seems to bring out your hair and your eyes; you should wear it more often.”

“Thank you, Milord. I shall try,” Geralt nodded, the apples of his cheeks going another shade darker.

Jaskier was enthralled. He’d never seen Geralt blush so frequently before; _was it his status as a Lord? Was it the air of authority he’d assumed? Was it the outfit?_ The bard wasn’t sure exactly what had captured Geralt’s attention so thoroughly, but he was happy about the results regardless. 

They finished their meal in relative silence. Geralt was given a significantly larger second portion than Jaskier and neither of them cared to mention it aloud. _That was probably why he’d talked to the servant,_ the Witcher figured. _Best to just thank him later when we’re back on the Path and he’s acting like…himself._

“Shall we retire to the sitting room for the evening?” the young noble asked, standing from his seat. Geralt followed him dutifully, moving as silently as a cat between the dining room and the unusually cozy sitting room of Pankratz Castle. “Pardon my intimacy, Sir Witcher, but this is my family’s private sitting room. I find it easier to keep warm than the formal sitting room down the hall.”

“I am honored,” Geralt bowed his head. He wanted more than anything to hear Jaskier say his first name again. He didn’t like the way _Sir Witcher_ sat heavy and formal on the bard’s spry tongue. He missed the happy, lilting tune of Jaskier’s giddy “ _Geralt!”_

Jaskier laid himself out across the chaise lounge and gestured for Geralt to take the armchair opposite him. The Witcher balanced precariously on the edge of the cushion, always ready to flee if necessary.

“So, Sir Witcher, what adventures did you have during winter?”

“Not many I’m afraid, Milord. I spent the season sequestered at Kaer Morhen with my brothers and my mentor.”

“How are your brothers faring? I think often of their health.”

“They are well, thank you.”

Geralt didn’t like having to play word games the way Jaskier did. Every sentence was carefully constructed and executed in the same way that he would consider a dangerous thrust or parry when dueling. Any sign of disrespect or any misplaced _Milord_ could have him throne from the room (and the keep) in a second. All Jaskier would have to do was snap his fingers. 

“And you, Sir Witcher?”

“I’m afraid I have not slept as well as normal. My bed has been as empty as my heart,” the Witcher admitted. “If I may say so in polite company.”

Jaskier’s heart was fluttering in his chest, “You may.”

He stood rather suddenly from the chaise and reached out a hand for Geralt.

“Milord?”

“I can offer you rest, sweet Sir Witcher. Come with me. There is much to discuss.”

* * *

Jaskier pulled the velvet curtains around his bed closed on either side, leaving only the firelight to illuminate them from across the room. Kneeling over him like this, with his shining chestnut hair all mussed and wild and the fire blazing behind him, the young Lord looked like some kind of avenging angel. Geralt bit his lip and did his best not to wiggle in impatience. 

“Sir Witcher,” the nobleman smirked. “I’ve often dreamed of seeing you like this; laid out before me in my bed, blushing and shy.”

“Wh-What?”

“You must have known,” Jaskier chuckled lowly. He moved his hands to rest on either side of the Witcher’s head and leaned forward, close enough for his breath to tickle the skin of Geralt’s neck. “You must have known how much I _wanted_ you. All those nights crammed together on shitty straw mattresses at podunk inns. All those baths and all those vials of chamomile oil so lovingly pressed into your tensest muscles…”

“I…I thought-”

“I’m sure you did,” Jaskier cooed. His teeth worried a mark into the skin of Geralt’s throat and the Witcher shuddered. “You can’t seem to _stop_ thinking, is the problem. Stop letting your busy mind run away with you and just _feel something_ for me, Geralt.”

“Finally, _Jaskier_ ,” the Witcher groaned, surging up to kiss his bard. He’d been waiting to hear the other man call him by name all night and it felt almost like a form of permission; however, Jaskier’s hand tangled in the front of Geralt’s borrowed shirt and the surprisingly strong young man slammed him back down against the soft bed cover. The Witcher made a startled noise and his eyes went wide. His white hair had formed a halo around his head at the impact and he saw _lust_ flash clearly through Jaskier’s eyes.

“You will refer to me as _Milord_ ,” the younger man asserted. His pupils were large and dark; Geralt’s breath caught in his throat and he nodded silently in agreement. “Much better, pet.”

“Milord, _please_ ,” the Witcher gasped. Jaskier bit and sucked languidly at the skin above Geralt’s collarbone, somehow radiating a sense of laziness and ease despite the harsh movements of his tongue and teeth. The hickey was dark and throbbing when the Viscount finally pulled away. He traced his handiwork with the tip of his pointer finger and Geralt hissed at the contact. It tingled sensationally and the Witcher felt like he might vibrate out of his skin with anticipation. He wanted to be _touched_. He wanted to be _taken_. By Jaskier and only Jaskier. _His_ bard. _His_ little Lord. _His love._

“Do you want me like this, Geralt?”

“Gods, yes!”

Jaskier waited for a beat and the Witcher realized his mistake.

“I want you, _Milord_. Take me, please.”

“I’m glad to hear that you feel this way because I want you, too, my darling. Probably twice as badly.”

“Twice?”

The young Lord grabbed a fistful of Geralt’s glorious ass and squeezed, smirking like the nobility he was. “Twice.”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher whined. The bard’s mouth was suddenly making its way down towards the laces of his half-open shirt and Geralt felt his breath coming in quick little pants. He moaned quietly when those clever fingers undid the tie in his trousers and began to ease them down and off his legs. The Viscount’s lips were still plastered to his chest, biting and kissing whatever skin he could reach. “Fuck, Jaskier. C’mon.”

“Are you making demands of me, _peasant_?” Jaskier clucked disappointedly. “Don’t you know your place by now?”

Geralt nearly choked on his tongue. His pants were gone, his shirt had been rucked up to reveal the muscled expanse of his abdomen, and his bard was licking across his hip-bone. All he could do was whine and shudder and _take it._ He _wanted_ to lay there and take whatever Jaskier was willing to give. Torture like this? Well worth it, in the Witcher’s opinion. 

“Jaskier, _please_.”

“Naughty Witchers don’t get what they’re after,” Jaskier shook his head. “You’ll just have to learn the hard way.”

Geralt was about to ask what _exactly_ his bard had meant by ‘the hard way’ but every thought imaginable flew from his head as soon as Jaskier’s lips closed over the head of his recently-freed cock. “Shit!”

The noble smirked from between the Witcher’s legs and pushed himself further, taking as much of Geralt as he could back into his throat. He pressed his hands down over the Witcher’s hips, holding him flat against the mattress in an incredibly show of strength, and _hummed_. 

“ _Oh_! Oh Jas- _fuck_ Jaskier,” the man beneath him gasped. Jaskier bobbed his head a few times before pulling back with a soft _pop_ and a grin. Geralt was trembling, his hands fisted tightly into the bedclothes. “Milord?”

“Geralt,” the bard sighed, sitting up and leaning over the Witcher once again. He ran the back of his knuckles across his companion’s lightly stubbled cheek and smiled softly. “May I take you apart, my love?”

“L-love?”

“Of course.” Jaskier leaned down slowly, letting Geralt take a little bit of control back for himself. The Witcher breathed in once, slowly, and exhaled just as carefully. He closed the distance between them and gave his beloved bard a soft and caring embrace. Jaskier wasn’t the kind of person to tell falsehoods. Embellish the truth for a song or a good story? Of course. But outright _lying_? That would have infuriated the bard. 

“I love you…too.”

“Excellent. Now that we’ve settled things,” the brunette wiggled his eyebrows mischievously and Geralt watched as he turned instantly from Lord Julian Alfred Pankratz to Jaskier the Bard. He watched Jaskier’s hand as it snaked down between them and Geralt found himself awash in pleasure once again, “I’m going to ruin you, Witcher!”

Geralt groaned and tossed his head back against the pillows. 

Jaskier never lied.

* * *

“ _Fuck_!” Jaskier thrust harder and curled his body over Geralt’s. He could feel the damp curls of his chest hair sliding against the skin of the Witcher’s back, already sweat-slick from their first round of lovemaking. 

It had been loving and tender and surprisingly gymnastic; but after a few minutes of snuggling and continued kissing in the afterglow, Geralt had levered himself onto his elbows and knees and arched his spine so fucking _temptingly_ that Jaskier had bitten his knuckle close to bloody in an effort to keep from screaming aloud and scaring the castle guards. _Again_ , Geralt had ordered. 

Jaskier was loath to disobey.

“Oh! _Jask_ -Jaskier!”

“Yeah?” the bard laughed triumphantly. He snapped his hips forward again at the same angle and Geralt bowed beneath him. The Witcher had his glorious pecs buried in the mattress and his hands fisted in the sheets above his head. He looked like a godsdamned feast and Jaskier was taking his fill while he could. The Viscount pushed in again, aiming carefully, and Geralt released another shuddering moan.

“Jaskier, _please_ can-”

“Oh, my love,” the bard moved one hand from its place at Geralt’s hip to the front side of his body. He took hold of the Witcher’s glorious cock and tugged a few times in rhythm with his thrusts. It didn’t take much to work his overstimulated lover through a second orgasm. “You feel _incredible_ , Geralt.”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher sighed, lax and jelly-like beneath his bard. “I love you.”

“I love you too, darling. Now let’s get cleaned up and talk about how this experience has changed our relationship for the better, yeah?”

Geralt nodded, no longer scared of losing Jaskier.

Not after _that_. 

Not after all the love and power and self-confidence the bard had shown him here tonight; Jaskier could take care of himself. They were more than ready for this. _Geralt_ was more than ready for this. He reached out, cupping the bard’s soft face in his large, calloused hand. “As long as you promise to stay by my side, my love, I’m ready for anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> VALIDATE ME, CAPTAIN!


End file.
